


Eat Me

by OctarineSparks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humour, Parody, Some Angst For Good Measure, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Magnussen was more than just a creep. He was a genius. A creepy one, yes, but still, he had invented a device that made it possible to gain physical access to Sherlock's Mind Palace. Now Sherlock is locked inside while Magnussen walks through his head, and it is up to John Watson to save him.</p><p>(An Alice in Wonderland parody, of sorts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Stardust

**Author's Note:**

> This came into my head for reasons that, while I can assure you were not drugs, are still a bit unknown to me. It doesn't follow the story of Alice in Wonderland at all, but it borrows many, many elements from the story. First chapter is short because it's just a wee prologue, later chapters will be longer, and probably involve more British swearwords. Hope you like it! - OS.

**Prologue - Stardust**

It began with a phone call, which was usually a terrible start. Sherlock's disdainful feelings towards phone calls were eclipsed only by his disdainful feelings towards the following; popular culture, Wednesdays, lima beans, sentiment of any kind whatsoever and, of course, Anderson. However, he answered the phone, because it was either that or he succumbed to the boredom that threatened to consume him. Before his phone had chosen to insistently bleep at him, he had been seriously considering the applied possibilty of using his violin as an impromtu bow and arrow. Instead, he put down the unfortunate instrument, and swiped his thumb across the screen of his phone.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes," he said again, because it was.

"I have a case for you," the voice replied, deep and unfamiliar.

"I thought you might," Sherlock said wryly.

"Come to the old shoe warehouse on Brixton Road at three o'clock. Alone. Tell no one."

"You know, this sounds suspiciously like a trap."

"Yes, it rather does, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps I will give it a miss, then," Sherlock said with a sigh.

"Oh, I don't think you will," the voice said maddeningly, and Sherlock couldn't really argue with that, because it was true.

-:-

As some sort of apology for the rigorous and expected beating he had received as he stepped through the door, Sherlock had been given quite a lot of drugs. Even now he wasn't sure if the man he was looking at really did have hair that tall or eyeliner that glittery, but the pretty patterns he made as he swayed around more than made up for it. Sherlock giggled, and wondered if he was lying down. He wasn't, so he promptly remedied this by falling over.

"Do you know what you are?" a voice murmured in his ear, but man, woman, child or beast, Sherlock couldn't be sure.

"Genius," Sherlock muttered, grinning. "Violinist. Detective. Acrobat. No, wait, not the last one."

"You are a magician," the voice continued, ignoring Sherlock's ramblings and quite right too.

"Abracadabra!" Sherlock cried, and then he passed out.

-:-

He woke up again some time later, with many questions. Cheif among these questions was 'What the bloody hell?', but when he tried to voice it, his words had a quick meeting before leaving his mouth, during which they had clearly decided 'fuck it.' "Wassgoinenhell?" he slurred, his head nodding and his body feeling too weak to even think about. Thank God he had all those restraints holding him up in his chair.

"Awake at last!" another voice said. Definitely a man, even if he was wearing make up.

"You... whatyou... want?" Sherlock said, feeling a faint agression that usually came hand in hand with being mildly drunk when someone has just spilled your pint.

"I want this," the man said, stepping closer to Sherlock and almost blinding him with the reflection from his sequinned shirt. He placed his hands at Sherlock's temples, and the detective wasn't sure if he was being violated or not. He would have to ask John later.

"No... s'mine," Sherlock insisted, twitching ineffectively in his seat.

"Oh, I know," the man replied in a terrifyingly smooth voice. "But I _want_ it. I want what's inside."

"You want my _brain_?" Sherlock asked, the idea making him feel sick and disappointed. He'd always wanted to see his own brain in the flesh, but had only really just reconciled with the fact that he would always be too dead to do so.

His captor tutted in frustration. "No, you fool. I want your mind. More specifically, your Mind Palace."

"I am full of drugs," Sherlock stated simply.

"Yes."

"I have been badly beaten," he continued.

"True."

"And I have been relocated to an unfamiliar place, with mild attempts at sensory deprivation."

"All correct so far."

"And yet _you_ are the one who isn't making any sense."

The man laughed softly. "So self-assured, so smart. Has it ever occurred to you that there are some things you can never understand?"

"No."

"Well, perhaps it's time you started to think that way. Your Mind Palace... is real."

Sherlock blinked. "Yes."

"Solid!" the man continued. "Tangible! _Accessible_."

"Bollocks," Sherlock replied, because sometimes there is nothing else to say.

"I assure you it is not bollocks," the strange man replied. There was a whirring sound, a flash of lights, and Sherlock suddenly felt incredibly sick and dizzy.

"You are a doorway to a world that I can only dream of. Information, Mr. Holmes! Knowledge and feeling and all the little facts that you've ever locked away! I will walk through them, pull them from shelves like books in a library and peruse them at my leisure. And all the while, you will be safely tucked away, keeping the palace alive but unable to escape." The man laughed, high pitched, manaical and utterly, utterly cliched.

"No, stop," Sherlock said, swaying in his chair as his head dropped to his chest. He was gone.

Hid captor straightened up as he watched Sherlock crumble. It had worked. He couldn't believe it. It had only gone and bloody worked! He turned around to look at the small, red cube that sat innocently beside the detective, looking for all the world like an amusing paperweight. Perhaps is would have been, too, had it not been for the small, silver print on the sides.

 _Magnusstech Appledore v2.4_.

And on the bottom:

 _Made in China. Keep out of the reach of children. No smoking. ~~No psychopaths~~_.

Those bastards in the factory thought they were so funny. But Charles wasn't a psychopath. He was a business man, a pioneer. It had been he who had come up with the device, using science and quantum and a few instructions jotted down in a recipe book that had once belonged to his mother. He was a genius.

A genius in a large blonde wig and glitter eyeshadow, but that was irrelvent.

His suit was still immaculate as he pressed his fingertip to Sherlock's forehead.

A shining silver disc, about the size of a coin, opened up there, growing bigger and bigger until it was a swirling vortex, welcoming Charles into a world of forbidden knowledge. He threw off the wig, and wiped the glitter on the sleeve of his jacket. No more Ziggy, he thought to himself, as he stepped inside.

This was a wonderland, after all, not a labyrinth.


	2. Follow the Silver Fox

 

 

"Just... just a regular one," John said, his voice shallow and pleading. "Hot, runny, milk and no sugar, in a paper cup, with one of those stupid lids on that always make you scald yourself when you pull them off. That's all I want."

The barista stared at him with slack-jawed incomprehension. "Grande, Venti..." he began to list in a monotone, and it took all of John's self control not to vault over the counter and knock him out.

"Tea!" John shouted.

"What blend?" the youth continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the small man in front of him was having some sort of meltdown.

"Just... tea," John said, breathing heavily.

There was no answer from the other side of the counter, and John wondered if the world at large had lost the barista for good. The act of filling a beverage order without all the unnecessary pretention seemed to have caused whatever gears usually powered the kid to grind to a halt in his head, and now he just stared, mouth hanging open, until John felt uncomfortable enough to leave.

He walked out of the coffee shop twenty times more tense than he had been when he walked in, and he was gripping his briefcase so tightly he was in danger of snapping the handle. He stepped out into a heavy shower of rain, and made a rude gesture towards the sky.

"John, over here!" a shout came, and John lowered his fingers just in time to see Lestrade stepping away from a mobile tea hut, two steaming, polystyrene cups in his hands. John sagged and walked over to the other man, an expression of tired gratitude plastered to his soaking wet face.

"You are a lifesaver," John said, accepting the tea with thanks as the pair ducked under the awning of a bookshop. "I was this close to strangling a teenager with his own stupid goatee."

The rain thundered into the canvas above them, almost drowning out John's words. Lestrade sipped his tea and laughed, almost choking himself.

"Those snobby places are a bloody joke," he said supportively, waving his free arm in the direction of the coffee shop.

"Tell me about it," John agreed grumpily. "Bloody grenades and venters or whatever they keep calling them. What the hell ever happened to small, medium and large?" he demanded, feeling every inch a stuck up old codger and not regretting it one bit.

"The Italians," Lestrade replied by way of explanation. "So, come on then, where is he?"

"Where's who?" John asked, taking another sip of his tea. It was perfect. Murky, scalding hot, and so full of limescale he could have stood a spoon up in it.

"Sherlock, of course," Lestrade explained, a momentary flicker of concern crossing his face. John would have resented the implication that he was effectively no better than being Sherlock's babysitter, but it was really not that far from the truth.

"I don't know," he said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. "Haven't seen him since, God... Tuesday?"

"It's Wednesday," Lestrade reminded him.

John scowled. "Doesn't matter. I still don't know where he is. He texted me this morning when I was on my way to work, something about hoping I catch MRSA, but that was it."

"Bit harsh," Lestrade said with raised eyebrows.

John waved his hand as though it were nothing. "Oh, he's still just pissed off because I threw out those bloody knuckles I found in his bathtub. They were starting to turn."

Lestrade frowned. "Well, maybe he went out to get some more, then," he said, but John wasn't overly happy with his tone.

"Greg, what is it?" he asked, thinking that he would much rather go home, get dry and maybe fall asleep in front of Countdown than put up with any of Sherlock's crap today, but also knowing at once that none of those things was ever going to happen.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "It's probably nothing," he said, making an expansive gesture that slopped a litle of his tea on to the toes of his scuffed shoes. "Probably just Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. But he was supposed to show up at the Yard two hours ago. I've got a case for him. A really good one, too. Three murders and a kitten."

"There's a dead kitten?" John asked, momentarily horrified.

"What? No," Lestrade said quickly. "There's a kitten, found at the last crime scene with a note in it's collar."

"Really? What did it say?"

"The kitten?"

"The note."

"Oh. It was a confession," Lestrade said with a small laugh.

"A confession? So what did you need Sherlock for?" John asked, confused.

"The confession was signed with a paw print," Lestrade answered, now laughing bodily.

"So it was the kitten all along," John said, grinning also, despite the slew of dead bodies that formed the basis for their mirth.

"Still, do you think he's at home?" Lestrade said once he had recovered, tears of laughter still lurking at the corners of his eyes.

"Did you try sending him a message? You know how he feels about phone calls," John said with a knowing look.

"Hm, yeah. Last time I called him, he insulted my mum and then hung up on me," Lestrade said blithly.

"He does that," John said, remembering the heated discussion he had had with Sherlock where he had tried to explain that it was never alright to accuse someone's mother of soliciting, even if they had phoned you in the middle of dissecting a kidney.

"Tried texting him though, no reply," Lestrade said.

John frowned, and pulled his own phone from his jacket pocket. There was a message from Sherlock waiting for him.

_And that one of your legs falls off, into the sea. SH_

Ah, an oldish message then, sent just before nine o'clock this morning. He huffed, and typed out a quick response.

_Don't be a prick. Lestrade wants to know where you are. JW_

He replaced his phone into his pocket and nodded at Lestrade, who was checking his watch. "I'd better get back," the D.I. said, finishing his tea and tossing his empty cup into the bin. John nodded.

"Thanks again. I'll let you know if I hear anything," he said, and he turned on his heel to catch the bus.

Then he turned on it again, and went to catch a different one.

-:-

Sometimes John would show up at his old flat and seriously consider the merits of just chucking a match in and starting anew. Sherlock was a lot like a dog in the sense that if he was left on his own for any extended period, he would devolve into a basic creature, using destruction as an outlet for whatever issues it was that a thirty-odd year old detective was able to cultivate in a solitary environment.

"Sherlock?" he shouted, falling over a pile of newspapers that had gone yellow.

He got to his feet muttering awful, awful curses under his breath, but it was clear from the lack of footsteps or, indeed, uncontrollable laughter, that Sherlock was not home. He glanced about for clues, for anything that might tell him where Sherlock was, and was rewarded when he saw Sherlock's note on the kitchen table.

The fact that it was scrawled on the fleshy back of a dead pig lessened the reward somewhat, but at least it was in biro instead of the detective's own blood.

_Pefection Shoes. Brixton Road. 3 o'clock. Definitely a trap._

John rolled his eyes and threw his briefcase angrily into his old chair. A cloud of dust billowed out, making him choke and cutting off his angry expulsion of 'stupid bastard!' He walked up the stairs angrily, checking his watch. It was a little after four. Sherlock was either dead or in a lot of trouble by now. If it was the latter, John couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't cause the former himself when he caught up with the man.

In his old room, he took a moment to despair at the disgusting state of it, before opening his old wardrobe furiously. The door fell off and landed heavily on the floor, and John resolved to stop channelling his anger through his every action, before he brought the flat down around his ears.

He rummaged through the wardrobe and quickly found what he was looking for. And old shoebox, in which there was an old gun with a few old bullets. Less bullets than there had been when he had left it there, but he really hadn't expected any less and nor should have Mrs. Hudson when she decided to replace the wallpaper in the front room.

He slipped the half-loaded gun into the waistband of his trousers and changed his bright green and red jumper for a more seriously toned one.

Grey, like the overcast sky and the wispy hair that gathered at his temples.

He had some rescuing to do.

-:-

The rain relented a full three seconds after John stepped into the musty old warehouse. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, mostly empty and all mouldy, and most of the windows had seen the harsher side of a brick at some point. Which, John reflected, was really _every_ side of a brick, in fact. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet as he walked onwards, his eyes searching every inch of the place as his shaking hand held his gun in front of him.

The first, out of place thing that he noticed was the small, almost imperceptible spatter of fresh blood on the floor.

The _second_ thing he noticed was the fuck-off great big swirling silver vortex protruding from his friend's forehead, which rather pushed the blood from his mind.

The gun fell from his hand with a clatter, forgotten, as he walked forward.

He stretched out a hand, wanting to touch the shining silver surface, but the words that he had so recently read off of a pig's back flashed in his mind.

_Definitely a trap._

He pulled his hand back and tried to look past the vortex and at his friend. Sherlock was slumped as though fast asleep in the stiff wooden chair, ropes binding his chest, legs and arms. He was covered in cuts and bruises, and looked decidedly pissed off about the fact. The vortex was a few inches from his face, and the light from it danced over his features and enhanced his cheekbones in a way that made John feel a bit green. He took a few steps closer to his prostrate friend, and placed his fingertips at his wrist.

There was a pulse, erratic and thready though it was.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

He was just pulling Sherlock's eyelids apart when he spotted the red cube on the shelf next to Sherlock's head. He wasn't sure whether or not he should touch it, but then again, he was standing next to what looked like the Plughole of the Universe, and certainty, like his ability to have sex twice in the same morning, was just something he was just going to have to do without from now on.

He picked up the box and turned it over in his hands.

It didn't explode or sprout tentacles and try to throttle him, so it was a good start.

"Magnusstech," he muttered to himself, immediately thinking that it sounded like a very sneaky and underhand company.

He looked down at the shelf once more, and saw a white piece of paper that had been folded up and lodged under the cube. He picked it up, shaking it open with his free hand, and started to read.

_Congratulations on your purchase of the Magnusstech Appledore v2.4!_

_In choosing Magnusstech Appledore v2.4, you have selected the pinnacle of MPI tecnology. With Magnusstech Appledore v2.4, not only is constructing a viable pathway into another's subconscious easy, it is a pleasure! It's sleek, unobtrusive design makes the Magnusstech Appledore v2.4 a must for any member of the secret intelligence forces, while its compact size means that it fits neatly into most handbags and other types of luggage. The gateway created by the Magnusstech Appledore v2.4 is both stylish and bold, not to mention structuarly sound, with no risk of collapse!_

_But how does it work?_

_The Magnusstech Appledore v2.4 harnesses psychic energy, moulding the thought impulses of an individual into a tangible, enterable reality. Our quantum engineers have mastered the art of the portable dimension, making for a smooth, efficient transition between realities. Marvel as the innermost thought processes of another human being become your playground! Walk among their memories, their desires, their secrets._

_The ideal gift for the man or woman who has everything._

_The Magnusstech Appledore v2.4 - Enjoy your stay!_

_(Disclaimer - Magnusstech accept no liability for injuries or deaths caused whilst using the Magnusstech Appledore v2.4. Uses are recommended to take a break every 3-4 hours, returning to base reality to ensure continued sanity. The Magnusstech Appledore is NOT A TOY. Do not expose to extremes of heat or moisture. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU EVER TAKE THE MAGNUSSTECH APPLEDORE V2.4 INTO ANY OTHER AUGMENTED REALITY. Magnusstech Complaints Department hours: Monday-Friday 9:30am-3pm.)_

"Bollocks," John said simply, because, as has been previously stated, sometimes there is nothing else to say.

He put the cube and the paper back down on the shelf and returned to Sherlock. There had been no instructions, nothing to tell him how to wake the poor bastard up. And who had done this? Was there someone in there, right now, stalking through Shelock's mind and picking it to pieces? The idea made John shudder.

He walked back around to the vortex so he was facing it, and peered into it's silver, swirling depths. In the distance he could just make out a shadow, and he could almost hear some words.

"...ate. So late. For a very important case."

John stepped a little closer, trying to get a better look at what was going on, and feeling slightly guilty for doing so.

"He's late. So late. For a very important case."

The words were louder now, and they had a familiar ring to them. He was starting to make out a proper shape now, a man. He was walking back and forth and he seemed to be staring at his wrist.

"Lestrade?" John whispered, stepping closer still.

And then, as though he were being pulled in, he fell through the vortex with a sudden shout.

The world tipped ninety degrees, and instead of falling forwards he was falling towards the ground, air rushing up to meet him as he continued, down.

Down.

Down.

All around him he could see metal work, bannisters and steps. He was falling through the centre of a huge stairwell, and he tried desperately to grab on to the rails as he passed, but to no avail. He was falling.

Down.

Down.

"He's late. So late. For a very important case."


	3. Sussex Fat Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So three chapters in and really very mild, unintentional Johnlock happened. Maybe bromance, but seriously brain, come on! I think there's even Mystrade, but it is small enough to be unworthy of note.

Down.

Down.

Until it started to get a bit boring.

As John fell, various objects flashed past him, unconnected to anything, and incredibly strange. He was caught sharply on the arm by a pair of familiar looking trainers, except for the fact that the moment he reached out to them, they burst into flames. John didn't like that, but he did however discover just how accustomed he was to having anything to do with Sherlock catch fire.

But then again, none of that really mattered, because this was obviously a dream.

Nightmare.

Whatever.

He felt as though he had been falling since the dawn of time. He span lazily through the air currents, unable to make himself comfortable as there was nothing against which he could. He relaxed his limbs, watching with mild interest as they flailed and snapped now and again, and after a while he even managed to nod off. That was worrying. Falling asleep in a dream, well, that was ludicrous, which was only saved from being completely bonkers by the fact that at least he wasn't drea-

Oh, for fuck's sake.

 _It was an obscenely gorgeous day by the river bank. John was lying wth his head in Sherlock's lap, while out on the river, Mary passed them by, punting a small gondola with amost lethal precision and scowling at them. Sherlock was reading a book, but John had no interest in it whatsoever because, while the lack of illustrations wasn't an issue, the fact that it was called_ Great Disembowelments of the 20th Century _was._

_"I feel as though I've forgotten something," John said slowly, picking a daisy from the grass. The daisy told him to piss off, so he put it back gently._

_"Hm? Oh, that's why you need a Mind Palace," Sherlock said disinterestedly, not looking up from his book._

_John laughed. "No, no, thank you," he said, dimly registering the apporach of rapid footsteps. "Too much effort. It is much too hot to be constructing mental architetchture, thank you."_

_Sherlock smiled down at him as another figure ran into view._

_Lestrade looked resplendent in a neat, charcoal grey suit and his usual heavy overcoat. His eyes were wide and worried, but John was far too distracted by his hair. In the sunlight, it glowed like a silver halo._

_Lestrade pointed an admonishing finger at Sherlock, who continued to read his book without a care in the world._

_"He is late!" he snapped angrily. "So bloody late! For a very important-"_

"NO!" John shouted, his eyes snapping open suddenly. "Already did that!"

He was dismayed to find that he was still tumbling through the seemingly never-ending stairwell. It was all rather worrisome. Mary, for example, would be furious if he never came home due to an unfortunate psychotic episode, and that feeling had nothing to do with the dream he had just had. Regardless, he fumbled in his pocket for his phone, before promptly calling it a shit when he found that it had changed into a small jar of strawberry jam.

Still, he thought, slipping it back into his pocket. Jam.

A violin that was indecently playing itself flew past him with careless abandon. A Bunsen Burner, a purple shirt. The skull that so often offended Mrs. Hudson struck him hard enough to almost cause a concussion. He was effectively getting the crap beaten out of him by Sherlock's insane collection of every day objects.

Admittedly, he had a history of that sort of thing, what with unruly chip-and-pin machines and frustrating self-service checkouts, but being physically attacked was something new.

"This is absurd," he muttered into thin air as an eyeball, _someone else's eyeball_ , glanced off his cheek.

"Will you just-- Stop!" he cried.

He landed with a harsh thump on the cold, tiled floor, swearing and screaming and denying there was a God. In front of him, he noticed, when he finally managed to unstick his poor abused face from the cold porcelain, he saw something odd, and yet horribly familiar. Wedged into the grouting, vibrating slightly on it's point, was a black umbrella.

"Oh, God, not you," John groaned, pushing himself up on his arms.

The umbrella said nothing, though if it had, John doubted he would have been surprised.

There was a shimmer of movement in the air, a sort flash and John looked up at he got to his feet. Teeth, actual teeth, were slowly forming in front of him, and soon they were surrounded in a pair of thin lips that were stretched into a wide, smug grin.

"A grin and an umbrella. That just about sums you up, Mycroft," John muttered, dusting himself down.

"Oh come now John," a voice began, floating down from the ether. "Don't be like that. We're all... friends, here."

John spun around in a circle, wondering where the voice was coming. The disembodied mouth in front of him hadn't flickered from it's quite frankly punchable smile, and instead Mycroft's voice seemed to be all around him. What an unbearable thought.

"Friends? Mycroft, what the hell is going on?" John demanded angrily.

Mycroft laughed, a slow, languorous sound that set John on edge. Slowly, starting from his mouth and working backwards, the rest of Mycroft began to take shape, like smoke filling a glass bottle, until at last, there he was, in all his superior, waistocated glory.

"Tell me John," he asked, cocking an eyebrow as he pulled his umbrella from the ground and swung it up so that he could inspect the sharp tip. "You didn't happen to see a silver fox come this way, did you?" He turned to John, the lazy smile claiming his features once more.

"See what?" John asked, as, for no apparent reason, an elephant walked into the room. It looked about, did the elephant equivalent of a shrug, and then walked out again.

"No matter," Mycrfot replied, twirling his umbrealla slowly. John was seriously afraid that he might burst into song. "But, you really ought to be looking for him, you know?"

"The silver fox?" John asked, happy to have a goal in what was clearly a mental breakdown.

"Hm, maybe," Mycroft replied, testing John's patience. "Or maybe it is Sherlock you seek."

John took a step closer to Mycroft. "Yes! Sherlock. He's hurt, I need to wake him up. I need to get out of here."

Mycroft very pointedly looked upwards. John copied him, and all he could see, stretching up and up and up, was endless stairwell. The vortex through which he had fallen wasn't even visable as a tiny speck of light.

"Sherlock has the keys," Mycroft told John. "The silver fox knows the way."

"Right, ok, silver fox... silver fox..." John said, running his hand over his face. He paused. "Where should I start?"

Mycroft pointed to a small door with his umbrella. "He's looking for Sherlock too. Something about my little brother being 'late'. Oh, but he will be late if we don't find him soon. Very late indeed." He looked at John. "As in dead," he clarified pointlessly.

"Yes, I got that. Hold on," John said, shaking his head. "The silver fox. Do you by any chance mean Lestrade?"

Mycroft smirked and said nothing. "To whom does my brother run when all else is lost?" he asked drily.

"You," John said pointedly. "Me?"

Mycroft shook his head. "So much of Sherlock's humanity is _for_ you, not from you."

"Alright, enough cyptic bullshit, it's late and I just fell about a thousand or so feet. Where can I find Lestrade?" John snapped. Things were starting to get pink and mushy, and he was worried he was going to have to start thinking about Sherlock's _nature_ if he wasn't careful.

"The silver fox will seek Sherlock until he feels that he is too late. Follow the doors, but beware though. The rooms do have a tendency to move. Be careful of the monster here, he isn't like me. He's like you."

"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" John demanded.

"The man who came here, the one who fell first," Mycroft said pointing at the ceiling. "He is real, just like you."

John nodded. Alright, so the bastard who had started all this was around somewhere. That made things more interesting.

"So he's the only one who can hurt me?" John asked, squaring his shoulders.

Mycroft stabbed John agressively on the toe with his trusty umbrella. John shrieked, jumping back and hopping on the spot, glaring daggers at Mycroft.

"What the bastard hell are you playing at, you manganimous twat?" John screamed, eloquent in his agnony.

"We call him the Glamourrock. He wears a sequinned shirt and talks as though his words were sweeties. But do not be fooled, John, while he _can_ hurt you the most, everything here is dangerous."

"Of course it is," John snapped, limping slightly towards the small door Mycroft had pointed out. "This _is_ Sherlock's mind, after all."

"Ah, catching on quick, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, grinning as though he were genuinely pleased. He began to fade away at the corners once more as John knelt down to examine what really was a very small door. Soon, only that gloating smile remained.

"Beware the Red King," it whispered, before disappearing with a pop.

-:-

Sherlock was fucking furious.

Unbelievably so.

He was still tied to that awful, stiff chair, his limbs ached and worst of all, most of the drugs seemed to have left his system now. Wherever it was, it was dark, and lacked both smell or temperature. When he tried to shout, no words were forthcoming, and when he tried to move, the little that he could, he didn't register the jerking of his arms or legs.

It was terrifying.

But if that creepy weirdo had been telling the truth back at the warehouse, if he really was locked in his own Mind Palace, well. That was fantastic. He had spent enough time there as it was, and it might have been fun to walk around the place, looking in all the nooks and crannies at things he hadn't considered for years.

But then again, there was the cube.

V2.4. Probably a prototype. So it was bound to go wrong sooner or later.

And besides all that, Sherlock was trapped. Undoubetedly, completely trapped, and he had no idea how long it was likely to last. His head was hurting, but really, that was the only thing he could feel and he was grateful for it.

Then, suddenly, he heard something. A sound creeping in at the corner of his mind, penetrating the suffocating silence. It was faint, but familiar. Gruff and angry, almost defintely a swear word. It sounded like ' _bugger_!'

"John," Sherlock breathed with a smile, though, obviously, he didn't hear the name at all.

 


	4. The Jam and the Key

John wanted to swear at the door, but he doubted it would have much effect. It was about a foot high, made of sturdy brown wood, and it had a small plaque screwed to the front of it. It was silver and very polished, but it was so small that John couldn’t even start to make out the engraving upon it. He pulled at the small round silver handle, but the door was firmly locked. Grumbling to himself, he got to his feet and looked back to the place where Mycroft had been mere moments before, all cryptic words and toothy grins. There was no sight of the blasted man; even his annoying umbrella had vanished. He was all alone, and when he tried to check for the door through which he was almost certain an elephant had come, he couldn’t find it and therefore assumed he had imagined the whole pachyderm episode.

Mycroft had said that the rooms moved; he had also said that Greg went through the small door. Mycroft said a lot of things, it seemed, that didn’t make any sense, and were to a word, infuriating. The final proof John needed that he really was inside Sherlock’s mind.

He wandered back to the door, knowing that there was nothing else to be done, scared that he would be stuck in the detective’s mind forever. And, oh God, what if Sherlock died? Of course, that would be terrible, what a waste of a life and so on and so forth, but what would become of John? Would he stay trapped here? Or would he just be swallowed up by the dimension he now occupied, another missing person mystery until the end of time?

He looked at small door, took a short run up, and started to kick the shit out of. It rattled and bowed in its tiny frame, but it didn’t yield. It didn’t even start to splinter. He screamed in frustration, raising his shaking fists to the ceiling. When he dropped them once more, his hand brushed against something hard in his left trouser pocket. He stuck his hand in, and pulled out the small jar of jam. He peered at the label, which looked as though it had been written by a five year old who had tragically been born without fingers.

‘Eat me’, it instructed.

Well, when it came to jam, John really didn’t need to be told twice. He unscrewed the lid and tossed it to one side after a moment’s contemplation. Then he scooped out a large amount of the viscous red sweet onto his fingers and stuck them into his mouth.

It was alright, he thought as he swallowed it down. A bit too sweet, for his liking, perhaps a little too runny, bit otherwise good. If John had one serious complaint about the stuff, and to be honest, he did, it was the fact that the jam seemed to have set his very blood on fire. That was one for the Research and Development Department, certainly. He would have screamed, but he seemed to have absolutely no capacity to do anything but feel pain.

The feeling subsided after what John was certain was a hundred thousand years, and collapsed he onto the floor, shaking and cursing Sherlock’s very name to whichever devil would have him. That important task completed, John then decided to take stock of just what had happened.

He seemed to have, well, shrunk, something of which he most certainly did not approve. He was small enough as it was, small and compact, like a Ford Fiesta. This, on the other hand, was ludicrous, as he was small enough now that he couldn’t actually reach up to the handle of the small door, even if he stood up on his toes. He estimated that he was about five inches tall, which gave him no comfort whatsoever. He was still too big to fit underneath the crack at the bottom of the door, and too small to do much of anything else. He huffed and began to walk around, hoping that his new perspective would offer up some new clues.

The upside was that, now that he was smaller, the words engraved on the plaque seemed to be that much bigger, even if he had to take several steps backwards and crane his neck upwards to see them. He peered at them like a nervous ship’s captain peers out to sea, looking for rocks.

 **William Sherlock Scott Holmes, PhD. Consulting Detective. Genius. Violinist ~~. Acrobat~~**. ** _Magician_**.

John shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes. So this would be it, the actual entrance then, to Sherlock’s mysterious Mind Palace. He was terrified to think of what he might find in there, but at the same time, he was insanely curious. And anyway, Sherlock’s Mind Palace was for facts and figures, not the fragile nuances of the human subconscious. Assuming Sherlock even had such a thing.

Still, whatever was on the other side of the door would have to wait as John, diminutive as he was, was completely impotent to do anything. He walked around some more, looking upwards, looking side to side, mistakenly thinking that his close proximity to the floor meant he didn’t have to check there also.

It was no wonder he hadn’t seen the damn thing while he had been his usual height. Relative to John’s size now, it was about the size of a Rubik’s cube, so a regularly proportioned John could have been forgiven for thinking it no more than a speck of fluff on the floor.

(Of course, John, regular proportions or not, should have questioned why there was a speck of dust on an imaginary floor in the first place, but it had been a long day, and he could be forgiven.)

Once he had completed the necessary business of falling over the damn thing, John picked it up, muttering under his breath like a Cockney shaman.

It was plain, made of highly polished wood, much like that of the infuriating door. John turned it over in his hands, but there were no instructions or hinges of much of anything. He stamped his foot like a petulant child, and threw it forcefully to the ground. It shattered, and inside, there was a key.

John picked up the key, and looked at it. The key looked back at him. Well, fuck.

“Hello?” he asked gently.

“Hello,” said the key.

“Can you get me out of here?” John asked, looking around in case there was anyone nearby who might spot that he was talking to a bloody key.

The key laughed. “And just how am I supposed to do that? You heard Captain Pompous back there. _Sherlock_ has the key.”

“And the silver fox knows the way, yeah yeah, but, and this might alarm you, you _are_ a key.” There was something familiar about the voice, it had a tinny quality but beneath there was a gruff, accented tone. Northern to be precise.

“Um, Mike?” he asked, when the key didn’t respond to being told that it was such, for which he couldn’t blame it. Him. Well, whatever.

“John Watson!” the key shouted happily after a few moment’s pause. “Look, I don’t want to be a bore about this, but are you absolutely sure I’m a key?”

“Fairly sure,” John replied, looking down at the poor bastard.

“I see. Well, that’s new.”

“I can imagine,” John replied, though he really, really couldn’t.

“It’s a bit upsetting, to be honest,” the Mike Stamford key continued.

“Well, no one likes being a key,” John said, trying to be comforting.

“I’d only just gotten used to being a pigeon.”

“Of course, and now—hang on. A pigeon?”

“That’s right,” the key replied, sounding quite happy about it. “Been a pigeon for nigh on, hm, seven years now. I mean yes, now and again I’m a bloke, sometimes I have this beard, sometimes I don’t, but mostly, yes, I’m a pigeon.”

John nodded. It made a sort of warped sense, that the bit-players in Sherlock’s life would be converted to city vermin when he wasn’t using them. Mike was a little too important to delete, but not important enough to think that hard about. It was perhaps a little offensive, but Mike really didn’t seem to mind.

“Any idea why you’re a key now?” John asked, after his brain had informed him that it would pretty much be running on automatic from here on out.

“No idea,” the key said. “Where are we?”

“Outside of the entrance to Sherlock’s mind,” John said, as though he were commenting on the weather.

“I see, well, there you go then,” the key said.

“There I go where?” John asked, wishing his brain had at least left simple instructions.

“How did you meet Sherlock?” the key prompted.

“You introduced us?” John asked, as though he wasn’t entirely sure of his own memories.

“Bingo! Through you go!” Mike said, as the small door swung open.

John peered through the doorway. In the distance he could see a garden, of sorts, but instead of leaves, the trees had case files stuck to their branches that swayed in the breeze. It was covered in a swirling grey mist, and he could just make out the shape of Greg Lestrade, disappearing behind one of the file trees. John grit his teeth, steeling himself.

“And why am I so small?” he asked Mike with a tired tone.

“You have to be, at first,” Mike said maddeningly.

John threw the key into the air, and wasn’t at all surprised when it transformed into a fat grey pigeon and flew away.


	5. Conversations With Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. I sort of hit a wall with this, re read the book and sort of threw out the idea of following Alice's storyline. I have something in mind now, hopefully updates will be more frequent!

**Chapter 5 – Conversations With Flowers**

 

John walked slowly through the miniature door, feeling agitated and confused. He and Sherlock had done some strange things, no doubt about it, but this really took the biscuit. It took the whole packet, aisle and supermarket, right down to the bastard chip and pin machines. In the distance he could still see the misty garden with its odd trees, but he had lost sight of Lestrade.

He began to run, but as he was still so very small it was still taking a rather long time for him to reach the garden. He was exhausted and sweating, pulling off his muted grey jumper, which had also shrunk down enough to fit an action man. He thought about tying it around his middle for a moment, but then changed his mind, throwing it instead onto the floor, right at the seam where the polished tiles merged into hard-packed soil.

He looked about either side of him and frowned. Grass grew either side of the path he found himself on, but it was bright red, and John for the life of him couldn’t understand why. Sherlock, as far as John was concerned, wasn’t really into frivolous flights of imagination, and it therefore made no sense that the grass in his mind palace would be red instead of its customary green. He walked over to the side of the path and looked at a particular blade. He picked it, holding it before him like a sword, his face set into a frown.

The blade of grass seemed to be leaking. Thick, red globs of liquid dripped from the tear at the base, splashing onto John’s shoes and up his trousers. “Oh, that’s just typical,” he hissed, dropping the shoot and taking a few steps back. The puddle of thick red liquid still seeped from the grass, and the large red puddle was slowly oozing towards him. When he looked back at the grass, he saw that its colour was in fact slowly draining back to its usual green.

“What the..?” he whispered, but it all became very clear as he eyed the shining pool at his feet once more.

“It’s blood, dear,” a voice said, scathing and utterly unsympathetic in his right ear. John straightened up and looked around, but there was no one to be seen.

“Well of course it is, he’s a doctor, he knows blood when he sees it,” another voice cut in, this time to John’s left.

“Alright,” the first voice snapped. “Never hurts to be sure. You never know, he’s probably not a very good doctor, based on the company he keeps.”

Now John had been having a very bad day, and it just kept on getting worse. He was an inch away from snapping, and having his medical skills critiqued by a pair of disembodied voices was perhaps just the right thing to give him that extra push.

“Steady on,” he said, raising a finger in front of him and speaking to the thin air. “I am in fact a very good doctor. Of course it’s blood,” he said, eyeing the liquid surreptitiously just to be sure. “Um, why is it blood?”

There was a collective sigh on either side of John.

“You were right,” the second voice muttered to the first. “Dense as anything, this one.”

John growled. “Alright, enough is enough. If I am going to be insulted by you, you could at least have the common decency to show yourselves.” He folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently.

“Show ourselves?” the first voice said with disbelief. “We’ve been right _here_ the whole time!”

John’s head ticked in frustration. He looked around him, spinning in a small circle. There was no one to be seen when he looked  up, and he wondered if perhaps he was just so small that he couldn’t see them at all. However, his view was unbroken, right up to the swirling purple storm clouds in the sky. He looked instead to the ground, not willing to be caught out again by anything that might be hiding down there, but all he turned up was grit and dirt and pebbles the size of his head. Around him was just the red grass, and one or two flowers, and in the far distance, the file trees.

“I can’t see you,” John said quietly, feeling as though the universe was having a massive joke at his expense.

“That’s because you’re not looking properly. You always look for what you expect to see, not for what is actually there.”

“That sounds like something Sherlock would say,” John said warily.

“Him? Oh yes, it does sound rather like him, all sort of smug and pompous!” This came from the first voice, and as John looked towards the source, there was no mistaking the way that the head of the bright yellow flower next to him swivelled on its stalk.

“You’re flowers!” John said, both surprised and furious at the ridiculousness of it all. The purple flower on his other side leaned towards him.

“Finally he gets it!” it cried in mock relief.

John breathed out heavily through his nose and pressed his lips together to stop himself from swearing. “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not used to plants talking to me, alright?” John huffed, wishing he was big enough to crush the smart mouth posies beneath his shoe.

“Oh, no, of course not,” the yellow flower began, its voice wheedling and snide. “Heaven forbid you lower yourself to talk to the likes of us!”

The purple flower began to laugh. “But he has been lowered, Daisy!” it roared in hysteria.  “I’d say he’d been lowered considerably!”

The yellow flower began to laugh too. “Would you say, considerably?” it chided happily. “There wasn’t much to lower in the first place Violet!”

John was a former soldier. He had seen things that should only ever exist in the fevered nightmares of mad men. He had seen men ripped apart by bombs, shredded by guns, and melted by fire. He had seen heart-breaking, soul destroying agony in the face of loss, and he had seen men transform into monsters before his very eyes. He had killed because he had to, hurt people to get what he wanted and he had somehow made his peace with all of that. He was not about to let two poxy flowers make height jokes at his expense, for God’s sake!

“Right! That’s it!” he barked. “Either help me or fuck off. I do not have time to listen to two moronic pansies mutter pathetic insults!”

The laughing stopped abruptly.

“That,” the purple flower said in a wretched voice, “hurt.”

The yellow flower sniffed. “There was no need to be so… so… _speciesist_ ,” it sobbed.

John bit his lip. Life did not come with a list of rules and regulations for talking to plants because, and here was the most important part, John thought _, it didn’t bloody need one_! Plants were pretty things that grew out of dirt, occasionally smelled nice and kept their non-existent mouths shut.

“I’m, er, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to call you pansies.” John tried not to make a mental note of this being a brand new low in his life, apologising to flowers.

The yellow flower sniffed again. “It wasn’t that!” it spat. “Why bother apologising when you don’t know what you’re apologising for?”

“Oh, ignore him, Daisy,” the violet flower responded harshly. “You should expect him to be just as ignorant as that bastard Sherlock.”

John narrowed his eyes. “What have you got against Sherlock?” he demanded.

There was no answer. He sighed. “Look I’m sorry I was… speciesist. Clearly this is all so new to me, and I didn’t know what I was saying when I…” He closed his eyes, wracking his brain to see what part of his little outburst had been so offensive. It didn’t help when his brain supplied the information that all of it had. But in particular, well, he thought, his eyes snapping open and running down the stalk of the yellow flower, right into the ground.

“When I told you to fuck off. Obviously you can’t, what with your roots and all. I am sorry,” he finished, trying to sound as earnest as he could.

There was a brief pause. “Thank you,” the purple plant said stiffly.

John nodded. “So, Sherlock? What did he do to upset you?” John pressed on.

The head of the yellow flower turned all the way around, leaning down to John’s eye level. “Sherlock Holmes is a freak,” it said, in a nasty voice.

John drew back and shook his head. “What did you say?” he said, a threatening tone in his voice.

“He’s a freak,” the purple flower repeated. “Always has been. We were at school with him, weren’t we Daisy?”

The yellow flower bobbed its head in reply.

“Hm, yes, such a loner that one. Always making insults to defend against the fact that no one could stand him. And if he thinks sticking us here, in the Dark Garden is some sort of punishment, well…” the purple flower trailed off.

“It kind of is,” the yellow flower said to the purple in a small voice.

“Yes,” the purple flower agreed. “Bastard,”

John smiled smugly. “Why is it called the Dark Garden?” he asked.

The yellow flower sagged on its stalk. “You had to ask, didn’t-“

“The first shoots grew here when Sherlock was seven years old!” the purple began theatrically. John got the sense that the yellow flower wished it had eyes, simply so it could roll them.

“Go on,” John prompted.

“Daisy and I, though Sherlock knew us, were nothing but facts in his mind. His mind palace was small then, still under construction, and not much thought had been given to anything else beyond science, maths and a little bit of geography. Sherlock was, at this point, merely a sponge for information, and yet to embark on his pathway of puzzles and problems that would consume him for the rest of his life.”

John nodded, really wishing he hadn’t asked.

“However, when Sherlock was seven, he was forced to create the garden as somewhere to place his first ever problem. Ironically his first puzzle was one that he could not solve. His dog, Redbeard, was suffering an illness, and growth in his spine. Everyone agree it was kinder to put the poor thing down.

But Sherlock did not agree. He thought there had to be another way, and of course his heart was broken when he realised that there was not.

And so grew the tree you can probably just make out in the most easterly corner,” the purple flower continued, using a leaf to point in the right direction. John stood on his tiptoes and squinted. He could just make out the tree in question, and old, twisted thing that looked as though it was long since dead. On its leaves there hung two files, both charred and blackened as though they had been burned.

“This is where the problems Sherlock cannot solve come. Each puzzle is a tree, the file leaves its pieces.”

“And the blood in the grass?” John pressed.

“Sherlock doesn’t care for people. He is always more interested in the bigger picture. If people do die, it doesn’t matter, so long as the case is solved. Surely you have seen this too?”

John nodded. “Yes,” he agreed coldly.

“And yet, in recent years, the blood has appeared. It keeps the garden alive, which is ironic as Sherlock would like nothing more than to see this place wither and die. It’s the blood of the people whose mysteries remain unsolved, seeping into the ground, keeping their memories alive.”

“That’s horrible,” John said quietly. “It isn’t his fault these people died… Or went missing or whatever.”

“No, but he thinks it is his fault that he hasn’t solved the case,” the yellow flower said.

John shook his head to clear it.

“Alright, but why are you here?” he asked.

“Because we make him doubt himself. It’s much easier to blame us for the fact that he can’t figure this out than himself.”

“Is he here?” John finally chanced.

“Oh no,” the purple flower said. “He never comes here if he can help it.”

“And do you know where he is likely to be?” John asked wearily.

“He’s wherever he needs to be. Find the Silver Fox, he-“

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” John cut in irritated. “Ok, one last question. How do I get back to my right height? And maybe a few inches more if I can manage it.”

The yellow flower chuckled. “I don’t know. Look for the White Witch. That sounds like her sort of thing.”

“The White Witch? Where is she?”

The flowers both shivered in a manner of reverence and awe. “The White Witch lives in the Valley of the Dead,” the purple flower whispered in a hushed tone.

“That sounds like a barrel of laughs,” John replied grimly.

“Do not be so quick to dismiss it,” chastised the yellow flower. “It is one of our most holy places, second only to… well, you will see. But don’t let the name fool you. This is the mind of Sherlock Holmes. Everything is backwards here.”

“So I’m starting to understand,” John said softly.

“Are you really?” the yellow flower asked in a surprised tone.

“Only in Sherlock Holmes head would he punish his enemies by turning them into flowers,” he said.

“Perhaps,” the purple flower muttered. “It is a rather odd choice.”

John grinned wickedly. “And yet, it seems to be working. Just follow the path, do I?”

“Yes,” the flowers replied, unable to hide the venom in their voices.

“Thanks for your help,” John said happily, and he began to walk in exaggerated steps away from the flowers and into the depths of the garden.

 


End file.
